


Warding Off the Dark

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [26]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Day At The Beach, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 22:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: You haven’t seen the ocean in a hundred years.





	Warding Off the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: And then when we get to the ocean, we're gonna take a boat to the end of the world. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator%22).

You haven’t seen the ocean in a hundred years.

That’s what it feels like, when you slide out of Stark’s car and set foot on the gravel and hear that sound again, the long, mellow roar of the waves.

“I know it’s not Coney Island,” Tony says, “but I thought you needed something a little lower speed.”

“It’s fine,” you say, or mean to.

You can feel him looking at you, squinting across the roof of the car. “Next time we’ll go someplace with a Ferris wheel. Or a boardwalk. Or shit-faced spring breakers--god, Barnes, you’ve never been to Daytona Beach, have you? The everyman’s cheap version of Sodom and Gomorrah.” He stops talking, a rare enough thing. Waits, but you can’t take your eyes off the water, the way it stretches ahead to infinity, runs away to the end of the world.

“Buck?”

“Yeah.”

“You, ah, you wanna walk down to the beach? Or we could stay here. At a safe distance. I don’t know if you have a shark thing, maybe. Or are you worried your metal arm’s gonna rust? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that’s an old wives’ tale Wilson’s been trying to scare you with.”

You shake your head, can’t quite shake your smile. “Ok,” you say to the sand, to the dunes, to the birds gathered at the water’s edge. “Let’s go.”

You leave your shoes on the front seat and step careful over the gravel, ease your feet into warm, sinking sand. Tony’s behind you, his sandals slipping where your steps are sure. But then, he’s not watching where he’s going; his eyes are on you.

The sun beats through your t-shirt and sings off your arms, both metal and flesh feeling flush with it, the humidity, the heat. You breathe in salt and steam, the promise of a scorcher ahead. 90 degrees by noon, the radio said, and that’s why you’re here now. That, and Tony figured it would be empty. Nobody down this far on the Banks this early. There’s a private beach at the house Tony’s rented, of course there is, but it’s narrow, tucked into an inlet. And when you got in last night, it was dark, the moon hanging high, hiding all but a hint of the vast body beyond. You went down to the water straight away, stood in the cove the wind’s whipped into the high dunes, and built a fire, warded off some of the dark. But it wasn’t like this, the ocean; you couldn’t see it like this, like all your eyes want to do is drown.

Tony touches your back. “Hey. You stopped again. I promise that the water won’t bite.” He spreads his hand, quick fingers scratching. “But if you don’t want to get any closer, that’s ok, too.”

You look at him but he’s not looking at you. His eyes are over the ocean, half-hidden clever behind dark purple shades. They’re the color of bruises.

He’s so worried about you. It’s like a living thing, his worry. But he’s never put it that way. Never said straight out _What’s wrong_? or _You seem off_ or _Are you feeling suicidal again?_ Nat says those things, and Steve, and even Sam, lately. Which is how you knows that it’s bad, that’s he’s gotten shit at hiding it, how low you feel most of these days.


End file.
